Baseball presents a living heritage, a game poised between the powerful undertow of seasons past and the hope of next day, next week, next year.
quote by John Thorn
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hoping Of Happy New Year
Hoping of happy New Year
The year has passed
The New Year has arrived
All the pains sadness and angriness has become past
All the happiness, sweetness and love has arrived
All the sickness, Madness and childness has gone
All the matureness, intelligence and hopes has arrived
My all the things are now my past
My all concentration is just focusing on future
New Year has arrived with hope
A hope of goodness in everything
A hope that my country will be in peace
A hope that all problems may come with a simple solution
May my all the relations become more sweet and loveable?
May my all pathetic memories be just past
May my life be quite simple
May my life be full of joy
Past year is a past don’t matter what was it
But the future is unknown and unseen
Don’t know that what will happen
Just hope that everything will be good and ok
So I hope that every hope will not just hope
Hope we can say next year with hope that Happy New Year
poem by Fatima Obaid
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Coach Joe
Thirty years gone by
My senior year
Past many sunsets
Playing baseball
Coached
By an icon named Joe
His two hundreth win
Was hard to get
When it finally came
This game, Ill never forget
We started the year at eight and 0
His win total, at one ninety-nine
Lost eight straight
Then, we lost our minds
The celebration cake, got stale
Doing nothing right
Though we tried, with all our might
Depression, set in
Would he get that
Two hundreth win?
Hooray, It did finally arrive
Extra innings
A game for the ages
A tear in his eye
Again, this team was alive
'It's the little things'
He would say
That count in this game
On this field
In life, in every way
He called us knuckle heads
At times, he did yell
Was he joking or not?
Hell, we could'nt tell
My seven brothers
Were coached by this man
Giving all he had
To this small town clan
As long as I live
I 'll never forget
He called us by our last name
Knew everyone of us
Just the same
We will never, forget
Nor will we, ever regret
The discipline this man showed
Making men of boys'
Playing baseball
Learning heartaches and joys
poem by Matt Mondschein
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Long Distance Daddy
I didn't make your football game last weekend
I didn't make the one the week before
I didn't see that fumble you recovered
I missed all that and I'm missing so much more
I've never seen the new house where you're living
I never met your friends or seen your school
And I ain't there to help you solve your problems
Or to help you klnow what is and isn't cool
I hope you like that new guitar I got you
I hope it's all you thought that it would be
Maybe someday we can write a song together
And maybe when you play it you'll think of me
I didn't make your football game last weekend
I won't make the one a week from now
But I want you son to know how much I love you
And I hope someday you'll understand it all somehow
poem by Mike Kosman
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Undertow
The pain is gone
The rain and storm they stumble down
The sun disguised again today
The wagon rolls, its axis bound
Another bottle cracked today
The game moves on
The people push and move so hard
Where now dont those flavors go
Answer now
Your questions move like undertow
Off to find your island now
We got pulled out by the undertow
Thats the way the wind blows
Everybodys laughing
We got pulled out by the undertow
Thats the way the wind blows
Too long today
We got pulled out by the undertow
Thats the way the wind blows
song performed by by Ugly Kid Joe
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Christmas Presents Treasure Hunt
Every year on the first of December
the annual Christmas presents treasure hunt begins.
During the January sales, my wife and I buy
our Christmas presents for the on coming year,
buy them and hide them
and each year we forget where we hid them too.
One year I had a bright idea,
I would draw up a little map,
then my wife decided on a spring clean
moving furniture from one room to another
which rendered my little map rather obsolete.
Hence, the treasure hunt began
and when we had found most of them,
another problem then arose
about who were the presents for.
We drew up a list of everyone
and attached a present to their name,
but nothing is straightforward in our house,
backward maybe.
The list was binned
and we had to start again.
In our search for Christmas presents
something more surprising is what came to light,
a five-year old box of mouldy chocolates
that we had bought for someone
but could not remember who.
Waste not, want not is the key words here,
now who don’t we like
these mouldy old chocolates we will give to them
for their treat this year.
As for all those missing presents that we couldn’t find,
it looks like shopping again
and maybe next year we’ll find the ones we lost
and sit down to figure out someone who we can give them to.
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Bob Forsch R.I.P.
His heart, like a knuckle ball,
fluttered in his chest.
A most unwelcome pressure-
he felt his chest compressed.
One week before he stood in awe
upon the mound at Busch.
Cameras flashed as he let fly
the ceremonial first pitch.
A champion in eighty two,
A Card for fifteen years.
Bob Forsch, A loved familiar name
brought out before the seventh game.
The first pitch that he threw that night
would also prove to be his last.
The Cards went on to victory
adding to their storied past.
A heart attack, the neighbors say.
Sixty one, so young, to fade away
God stole a page from LaRussa's book
in giving this starter a quick hook.
Last week, Bob Forsch, tossed the ceremonial first pitch before his Cardinals went on to win the World Series. Bob tossed two no hitters in his career and his Brother ken had tossed one also. The only brothers in Baseball history to accomplish that feat. When a starting pitcher is removed from a game early, before it has lasted long enough to be an official game, it is said the manager gave him a 'quick hook' Tony LaRussa, the manager of the Cardinals was notorious for changing pitchers multiple times in every game.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Baseball is a game, yes. It is also a business. But what is most truly is is disguised combat. For all its gentility, its almost leisurely pace, baseball is violence under wraps.
quote by Willie Mays
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The way I figured it, I was even with baseball and baseball with me. The game had done much for me, and I had done much for it.
quote by Jackie Robinson
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I chose baseball because to me baseball is the best game of all.
quote by Dave Winfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In Her Autumn
without trembling,
without resistance,
in the autumn,
every autumn,
year after year,
a tree offers up its living adornment –
that which it has given birth to, nurtured,
and seen transform for the past six months.
and you can see the wisdom of her perfect surrender in her face,
the character lines
of seasons spent living,
giving to Nature,
drawn out across her bark.
And I know a Woman
whose face is deep with meaning,
radiating nature’s beauty,
simple, solid, stalwart.
She gives of her strength and solace
to anyone who approaches Her;
And in her Autumn,
Her dress will fall,
and she will surrender completely
to that which God wills, to that which must come to all.
poem by Marc Mannheimer
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Merry Christmas Baby
Bring it down, band!
Now , i just came here tonight to say
I just wanna say ...
I just wanna say ...
Merry christmas baby, you surely treat me nice
Merry christmas baby, you surely treat me nice
I feel just like i'm living in paradise
Now listen
Now you see, i feel real good tonight
And i got music on the radio
And i feel good tonight
And i got music on the radio
And i feel just like i wanna kiss you
Underneath my mistle-toe
But now listen
Santa came down chimney, half past three
With lots of nice little presents for my baby and me
Merry christmas baby, you surely treat me nice
And i feel like i'm living, just living in paradise
Come on boys
Well now
Santa came down chimney, half past three
With lots of nice little presents for my baby and me
Merry christmas baby, you surely treat me nice
And i feel like i'm living, just living in paradise
And i just came down to say ... merry christmas baby
I just wanna say ... merry christmas baby
I just wanna say ... merry christmas baby
I just wanna say ... merry christmas baby
And happy new year too
Oh yeah
Play it boys go !
Merry christmas, happy new year
song performed by by Bruce Springsteen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Always Another Sunday
There is always another Sunday,
From where do Sundays come from?
Do they sell them next to strike-anywhere matches,
Can you buy a three-pack and get one free
To make a perfect month, of Sundays?
Sunday afternoon might find you sitting at table
With some people you don't know too well,
Trying to make polite conversation
While slicing up some shoe-leathery beef roast,
That has always been the hallmark of the day.
Is it the first day of the week
Or effectively, the last?
How can the week start without any work?
Because it seems to make a better ending, instead.
Will we ever run out of Sundays?
Not unless we run out of football, baseball
Basketball and soccer first; it seems evident
That Sunday is merely a cog, attached to the sports wheel,
And is born and dies each week, with the big game.
You will not find most people discussing their sins
On Sunday afternoons:
You already know what they will be talking about.
poem by Patti Masterman
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Seasonal
I love the fall and climb of the seasons,
Living among the weaknesses is polite;
I learn of the righteous acts that divide
The days and nights from each other.
Many sides are to the triangle and square,
Shapes so plentiful in their despair;
The seasons can change according to hurry
And haste of the warriors who design the year.
This year, one fell into disrepute and disharmony,
Tonight the legality of the situation cried
Far too long in tears, that tense moods
Obliterated the season of light and darkness.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Were There Hope
I was never in a league of noble gentlemen
To whom she'd cast polite and flitting smiles,
Only distant hope and dying dreams for me!
Or perhaps descent into a game of wiles
To give a chance of sipping wine on heady nights
With her angelic presence to declare;
Above, an aura playing out hypnotic hues,
And I in awe of blonde cascades of hair.
But no! my tiring soul is sinking in a mire
To haunt me for an age and evermore, for
How could I expect to hold her silken hand
When I am but a soulless ghost of yore?
Copyright Mark R Slaughter 2009
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope, hope?
Hope?
Never
poem by Mark R Slaughter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Friday Night Lights
14 to nothing,
Before the half
All the games, but one, have passed
Seasons ending early, due to injury
Compares nothing to the loss of a brotherhood; a family.
Friday night lights
So many dog-fights
In the end, we all sacrificed
To me football is a thing of the past
Just one more thing I wish would last
Stepping out on the field one last time,
Brings a tear to my eye
A half-hour past nine
Time to pack up, and head back home
Never again will I touch that end zone
The big hits are gone
No more players of the week
No more happy valleys
Or Thursdays to eat; before the game
No more fame
I’m proud to have played football for this team,
For that I’m not ashamed.
poem by Donnie Brush
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A week, a month, a year
How long is this waiting?
A week, a month, a year
I can’t count the days anymore
How long is this yearning?
A week, a month, a year
I barely feel the difference
How long is this goodbye?
A week, a month, a year
Is the end is forever?
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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She Loved To Watch Him Play
she never missed a practice
never missed a game
sat there watching
yelling his name
baseball, soccer, basketball too
she was always there
cheering him on
win or lose she didnt care
he was her little boy
he loved to play
she loved to watch him
even far away
for 12 years she was
at every game
always watching
yelling his name
then 1 day
he asked her not to come
he loved her
he would always be her son
he said other parents
never come
and he didnt want to have
the only one
he said he was a grown
man now
doesnt want his mom
around now
she said
ok
i wont embarrass you
that way
a few years later
he walks to the mound
looks at the bleachers
he hears a familiar sound
then he sees her
watching his game
sitting there patiently
yelling his name
he smiles real big
tips his hat
throws the ball
right past the bat
after the game
he runs to the stand
looking at his mom
she waves her hand
he runs past the fence
around the post
then realizes it was
his moms ghost
she never missed a practice
never missed a game
sat there watching
yelling his name
poem by Sandy Nobody
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Christmas Gifts
Ten Christmas presents standing in a line;
Robert took the bicycle, then there were nine.
Nine Christmas presents ranged in order straight;
Bob took the steam engine, then there were eight.
Eight Christmas presents--and one came from Devon;
Robbie took the jackknife, then there were seven.
Seven Christmas presents direct from St. Nick's;
Bobby took the candy box, then there were six.
Six Christmas presents, one of them alive;
Rob took the puppy dog, then there were five.
Five Christmas presents yet on the floor;
Bobbin took the soldier cap, then there were four.
Four Christmas presents underneath the tree;
Bobbet took the writing desk, then there were three.
Three Christmas presents still in full view;
Robin took the checker board, then there were two.
Two Christmas presents, promising fun,
Bobbles took the picture book, then there was one.
One Christmas present--and now the list is done;
Bobbinet took the sled, and then there were none.
And the same happy child received every toy,
So many nicknames had one little boy.
poem by Carolyn Wells
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You know that a given in life in human nature, is that at a sporting event, a baseball game, a football game, you never introduce a politician, is because he'll be booed. I don't care if he's the most beloved person in the world, its part of the game.
quote by Mark Russell
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Definitions As An Intention To Describe
Definitions as an intention to describe,
Can be so confining to the mind.
Case in point...
Having to 'some' a meaning.
But...
To those probing their observations,
Making little sense to make sensible...
A reason to find a rhyme.
I remember when I heard the term,
'Baseball' used.
And when I went to my first game,
I was not overwhelmed with excitement.
I couldn't get the 'bat' out of my head.
'Why isn't this game called 'Batball'...
Instead of baseball? '
I kept thinking of that.
Without the bat,
There wouldn't be any baseball played.
Unlike basket...ball.
I can understand that.
Foot...ball,
Okay...
I'm sold.
Base...ball?
And all that the bases do,
Is just lay there?
Home...plate?
That's not a home...base?
And the hitting of a 'homerun'...
That's out of the field of play?
Whoever created this game,
Is a genius.
The terms used as they are applied,
Makes absolutely no sense.
I can understand,
Why it's one of the most favorite sports.
Like golf!
When a player hits that ball,
That might endanger onlookers...
A shouting of 'fore' is heard.
Fore...what?
If one is hit...
Be-fore the word is heard,
That's it.
And even after 'fore'...
What difference does it make?
The other day...
I watched a player of 'baseball' lose his bat.
It went flying into the stadium...
To hit someone in the head.
No one warned the 'victim' at all.
No one shouted...
'Watch 'that'.
It's a flying bat.'
Hmmm...
Flying bats?
At a baseball game?
Where the selling of hot...dogs,
And pea...nuts with beer...
Is a tradition.
And someone wishes to keep the writing of poetry,
To restrictions?
By whose definition?
And when does prose not become poetry?
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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